Day One: The Letter

The attic was dusty, cramped, and smelled like forgotten things. Troy Reynolds wiped sweat from his forehead as he shoved a box labeled "Christmas 2009" out of the way. His parents were downstairs arguing over taxes or lawn equipment—he couldn't tell anymore—and this was their latest punishment. Clean the attic. Because of course that was what every seventeen-year-old wanted to do on a Saturday morning.

He was about to call it quits when something caught his eye. A wooden chest wedged behind a stack of old board games and torn sleeping bags. It looked antique, like the kind pirates buried treasure in—or in Troy's case, probably his dad's high school trophies.

He pried it open.

Inside, buried beneath yellowed maps and photos, was an envelope. A single word written on the front in faded ink: TROY.

His stomach flipped.

The handwriting was familiar. Shaky and old-fashioned. His grandparents. But they had died twelve years ago. In the Amazon, supposedly from a rare virus they'd caught while exploring. That was what the authorities had told the family. There had never been a funeral. Just two urns shipped back to California.

Troy opened the envelope with trembling fingers.

---

THE LETTER

Dear Troy,

If you are reading this, it means we've failed. Not just as explorers, but as your grandparents. We should have told your parents. We should have told you. But we didn't have time.

What we found deep in the jungle wasn't a virus. It was a parasite—something ancient. Something that changes people. Infects them. Turns them into husks of themselves. We tried to stop it, to contain it, but it's too powerful. Too smart. And now it's coming home.

The apocalypse takes place on March 8th, 2025.

Prepare. Tell no one you can't trust. Protect yourself and your friends.

We love you.

—Grandma and Grandpa

---

Troy stared at the letter.

Then he looked at the calendar on the attic wall, faded and curling from years of sun.

March 5th, 2025.

"Holy shit," he whispered. "That's in three days..."